


The Opposite of a Miracle

by MostFacinorous



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Arguing, Blasphemy, M/M, Mutual Pining, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pining, Quests, attempted redemption, divine whump
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-30
Updated: 2019-08-31
Packaged: 2020-09-30 10:35:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20445734
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MostFacinorous/pseuds/MostFacinorous
Summary: Crowley has spent millennia loving and protecting Aziraphale.He never counted on Aziraphale loving him back, and needing to be protected from Crowley himself.





	1. One

Of all the responses he might have expected, this wasn’t among them. 

It’d taken him time, and courage, and time to pluck up the courage, and then just a bit more time to be thoroughly  _ sure _ , but finally, he’d managed it. After weeks of trying to say something, setting himself up for it and then changing his mind last moment, Aziraphale had opened up to a demon.  _ His _ demon, as he’d taken to thinking of him.

He might have stuttered a bit, and wound his fingers together anxiously as he stood there, rocking on his heels before the demon he’d been assigned to Earth to combat, but he finally confessed to loving him, which was no surprise, he supposed, and confessed to  _ wanting _ him, which was fairly un-angelic, but not, he thought, uncharacteristic for him.

And he’d thought, well, Crowley had put up with him for this long. He’d seemed interested in him beyond the Agreement, beyond their friendship, even. He’d made overtures, in the past, and Aziraphale had not been ready, but now...

So Aziraphale thought he wouldn’t mind. Knowing him, he’d say something sly about having won and how Aziraphale had finally given into temptation, and then...

But that wasn’t how it went at all. 

Crowley froze for a moment before his face went hard and sharp, and then he sneered, and Aziaphale felt his heart sink into his stomach. 

“You  _ want _ .” Crowley repeated, words almost hissed despite the lack of sibalants in the sentence.

“And that’s it then? You decide all of a sudden that you  _ want _ and so here you are, ready to get it or take it or-- or accept it-- however you’ve imagined it-- but have you thought, really, about what you’re asking? Or is this like everything else-- like crepes or oysters or wine or some-- some  _ book _ to you? You want it, and you’re an  _ angel _ , so you just… get what you want.  _ Miraculousss _ .” 

“I-- I’m sorry? I didn’t mean to-- You aren’t just some _ thing _ to me--” Aziraphale began, uncertain how he’d bungled this so badly, terrified of what he’d just done. He’d thought, he’d been so  _ certain _ that he’d be well received, based on a hundred thousand minor miracles of kindness and thousands of years of companionship, and yet…

“What is an angel,  _ angel _ ?” Crowley interrupted, and the nickname no longer felt so endearing. It felt distancing, unkind-- an insult, an invective. And he was  _ so angry _ . 

How had Aziraphale gotten this so wrong?

“You told me once, do you remember? That angels were beings of love, made of love, made for God’s love to run through. That’s all it is--that’s all you are. Tangled up in all that  _ love. _ ”

Crowley stood suddenly and stalked forward, causing Aziraphale to back up quickly, only to smack his back against a bookshelf while Crowley stood before him, close, too close-- imposingly close. 

He wasn’t afraid of him, not really-- he didn’t think that Crowley would hurt him. He never had, in all these years, and moreover, he wouldn’t hurt anyone or anything else either. But he’d also not seen him shake with such fury-- not even upon discovering the Almighty’s plan for the children of Macedonia when the storm clouds gathered above the ark.

And the worst, the absolute most horrid part of it was the way this body’s heart was pounding and the way his eye caught on the pulse point of Crowley’s throat from so close up, the way he peered at those impenetrably dark glasses, trying to see through them, to make real eye contact. The horror of it was how  _ attracted _ he was to this fierce and furious demon, so close to him now, even as his sunglasses slid down his nose and his hands knotted in Aziraphale’s lapels, and even as Aziraphale’s heart shriveled up with fear that he’d destroyed this most important friendship with his greed. 

“I. _Am not_. An _angel_.” Crowley growled, giving him a good shake-- which resulted in his head bouncing somewhat painfully off of the wall at his back. 

He saw when Crowley heard it-- the sound was overly dramatic, and his skull was surprisingly hollow for all the stuffing of it he’d done throughout the years. But it didn’t even hurt all that much. It was unpleasant, but hardly anything to write anyone about. And yet…

He watched as Crowley’s golden eyes spread wide with horror and he released Aziraphale and stumbled backwards, looking for all the world as though he would be sick. 

And then, like that, he turned tail and was gone. 

Aziraphale’s suddenly all-too-human legs gave out and he slid down the wall to the floor of Crowley’s flat, stunned and hurt and humiliated, and above all the rest… repentant. Regretful. 

He oughtn’t have said anything. That was-- he’d destroyed something in Crowley, ruined something between them just now and he didn’t fully understand what or how. 

Did Crowley think that just because he was an angel, just because he loved everything, that he couldn’t love some things-- someone-- in particular? Was his love somehow invalid or cheapened because of the color of his wings or the paunch of his stomach? True, he indulged in the things he loved, and true, he’d hoped that, in telling Crowleyhow he felt, he might be allowed to do likewise with him, but… 

Oh, he’d gotten this so very wrong. And who knew how long it would be before he got the opportunity to apologize, much less make it right. If such a thing was possible. 

But… of course it was. It had to be. Six thousand years didn’t just disappear in a puff of demonic smoke. It couldn’t. He only-- he only had to make sense of what he’d done wrong so that he could repair it. Say the right thing this time. Assure him that it didn’t make a difference, that nothing had to change. And Crowley-- well, no doubt he needed some space and some time. 

He’d been so  _ angry _ … 

Aziraphale got to his feet with the help of the wall and soothed the slight pounding of his head with a single angelic touch. 

It clearly hadn’t been on purpose, and no matter how angry Crowley had been, the moment he’d hurt Aziraphale he’d fled his own home rather than risk doing any further damage.

He was, no matter what he thought of himself, a good man. Even if he wasn’t an angel-- and that had been odd, too, Aziraphale mused as he removed himself from the premises. 

_ Of course _ Crowley was a demon. He had been as long as they’d known one another. Even before they’d met, Aziraphale had heard about the fall-- who hadn’t- but he’d never known him as an angel, and he’d certainly not fallen in love with him under any false pretenses. They were what they were. So why had he felt the need to tell him as much? 

Did he suppose that Demons, being fallen angels, had lost their capacity for love? But that was so patently, clearly untrue. There was the Bentley, for starters. And the ways he’d always stepped in, to help Aziraphale or save him, or comfort him. And all those little favors, tiny miracles in their own right, wine and books and lunches and dinners and… 

...but those were the thoughts that had led to this confession, this error in judgement, in the first place. And they were clearly flawed, somehow. He just had to figure out where he’d misstepped.

He kept his head down and his hands in his pockets the entire walk back to the shop. 

  
  
  


⚔

  
  


Falling hadn’t been the worst part of being kicked out of heaven. Nor, even, was the landing, painful as that had definitely been. No, the worst part of Falling was being cut off from God’s Love, and it had left a gaping void inside of each of them. 

Crowley didn’t actually remember whether they’d held a meeting wherein the newly minted demons had decided to turn to their various preferred sins to fill the emptiness, to distract from the pain of it. But that was what had happened, almost unanimously. They’d defined these new selves of theirs based on the things they tried, and liked, even as they told themselves that they couldn’t like things that were good or nice.

God wanted them to be contrite, to beg for forgiveness. Instead they looked to one another and decided they were unforgivable, and every moment and thought began taking them further from what they’d been. 

Angels’ ability to cause miracles was achieved by believing in them hard enough that those beliefs simply became the truth of things. The newly fledged demons, unable to be wholly separated from what they’d been, believed themselves to be wicked and irredeemable and unforgivable, and their powers made sure it was so. 

But there was a bit of a loophole in that, and one that Crowley had been inadvertently using for upwards of several millennia: In his hedonistic search for a substitute for God’s love, he’d been basking in the presence of angelic love. It was like basking in warm sunlight on a spring morning-- he’d been used to mild summers, he’d fallen into a flaming pit, and now there was this, this gentler alternative, and, to him, it was  _ perfect.  _ He’d come to crave it.

He’d discovered it by accident, in the garden, while he was still raw from becoming what he was now, still weak and vulnerable and hurting. He’d spoken to the Eastern Principality, expecting to be given something to be angry about, to resent-- something to build up a wall around himself with. 

Wrath was a powerful tool, for a demon. But instead, he’d been given kindness and conversation, and that sense of love just emanating off of this being… it was addictive. He knew instantly that he needed more.

It went a long way towards healing old wounds or, at least, cauterizing them so they weren’t so raw. And it made him able, soon, to love in return. 

Which caused him an awful lot of trouble, once he realized, because one, demons oughtn’t, and two, loving his angel meant that he had to be exceedingly careful never to tempt his angel into loving him in return, even inadvertently.

After all, if he succeeded, Aziraphale would fall. There was no doubt in his mind about that. Crowley had fallen for asking questions about the order of things, for daring to so much as  _ doubt _ , way back when this was all new. Now it was set in stone, and a move like that, so directly in opposition to said order of things? There was no chance that would be allowed.

And then there was the fact that Aziraphale thought less of him for having fallen. 

No doubt it was something heaven had taught him-- and maybe with good reason. He’d certainly lost enough by Falling, lost himself and his connection to the Almighty, his home, his name, his past… but he couldn’t let Aziraphale lose that. Couldn’t be the cause of it. He loved him too much for that.

Because if Aziraphale fell, he would cease to be Aziraphale. He’d become someone else, something else. A demon, twisted and warped, with a new name, and a new personality. Something Aziraphale had spent 6000 years learning to hate, even if he was confused about that where Crowley was concerned. 

Aziraphale would, for all intents and purposes, be dead. And Crowley would have been, if not his murderer, at least the instrument of that death.

And there was a more selfish reason, too--  _ of course _ there was, him being a demon after all.

If Aziraphale fell, Crowley would lose even that tenuous and second-hand connection with grace. 

Aziraphale would hate himself, and blame Crowley, and then they’d both be alone. 

Because Crowley wouldn’t be able to give him what he needed-- he couldn’t be a replacement for God’s love for Aziraphale if he lost it any more than Hastur could be one for Crowley. 

But Aziraphale  _ did _ have his connection to God’s love, and had shown no sign of returning Crowley’s admittedly shoddy form of affection. And so Crowley had relaxed, and thought them safe. He’d pined in comfortable bittersweet agony for the better part of the last six thousand years, and had loved him as well as a demon could, as purely as he could manage, and then today, out of nowhere-- 

Crowley snarled and stomped down on the gas, urging his Bentley to go faster, to get further away, because he didn't know what else he could do. 

_ Was  _ there any way to protect Aziraphale, short of disappearing on him?

Not, of course, that he could remain missing for long. They both had become so accustomed and attuned to the presence of the other that they could  _ feel _ one another, in a way. 

It wouldn't be hard for the angel to track him down when he grew tired of waiting for Crowley to calm down. 

He could ask to be reassigned, perhaps, and maybe it would work… but whoever replaced him wouldn’t have the agreement in place. He’d be putting Aziraphale in danger. And what’s more-- Crowley  _ liked  _ it here. He was comfortable on Earth. 

He could leave Earth, he supposed-- remove the temptation… but what was to stop Aziraphale following him even then? He was certain he could manage, if he decided it was the thing to do. Stubborn git. 

And so… and so he needed to push him away. He’d hurt him earlier-- slammed his head against the wall. Hadn’t meant to, but he’d been so scared, so surprised, and-- he winced, remembering the expression on Aziraphale’s face. 

If he looked like that after from him accidentally roughing him up a bit, Crowley could hardly imagine what he would do if he fell. It wasn’t a  _ nice _ experience. And for all that hurting and scaring him wouldn’t be nice either… maybe it was kinder. A better option.

His stomach roiled at the thought. 

He didn’t want to hurt Aziraphale, didn’t want to scare him off, but he didn’t really see any alternative. 

He hadn't even put any thought yet to what he could say, what sorts of things he would have to do, and already he felt ill, his chest aching from it.

But this was no more than what he deserved for daring to feel this way about an angel in the first place. 

The CD in the player suddenly stopped in the midst of strong, driving guitar, and began a sadder melody. 

_ There's no time for us, there's no place for us… _

Crowley ejected the disk from both the player and the car. 

"That's enough out of you." He snarled. 

The Bentley seemed to shrug. 

It wasn't afraid of him any more than the angel was. 

He’d been too soft for too long. That would have to change. 

That in mind, he pulled off the side of the road, put it in park, and pressed his forehead to the steering wheel, trying to steel himself for what he would have to do. 

It used to be that lashing out was his first impulse, in reaction to every kindness Aziraphale showed, as well as every time Crowley himself thought too fondly of the angel. He’d struggled with that, fought it down for the most part. 

No more of that.

He just had to remember how to be what he was supposed to be-- or think of a single better option. 

Just one-- there had to be  _ something _ .

  
  


⚔  
  


Aziraphale had found himself at a loss, stuck in a limbo of indecision that was unfortunately very like him. 

On the one hand, he found himself wanting to distract himself-- and he did try!-- with books, first, and then the thought of a nice little restaurant crossed his mind, but suddenly there was a fear that Crowley might have gone to any one of them, and if he walked in--

And it was ridiculous; he knew that. He could sense the demon, if he was there, and simply turn tail. But, on the other hand he didn’t want to seem as though he were either chasing or avoiding him. And if Crowley wanted to talk, once he’d calmed a bit, it made the most sense that he should come here. 

And so Aziraphale compromised, and ordered take away from a restaurant that, he was fairly certain, hadn’t offered deliveries until that very second. But who would begrudge him that small miracle, when the one he’d really been hoping for had panned out so horribly?

He couldn’t help but wonder, though, if that very like him indecision wasn’t part of, if not the root of, the problem. 

He’d known, or suspected, for years-- centuries, at least, that Crowley had harbored feelings for him. No matter his reactions that day, it didn’t invalidate the rest of it. It couldn’t possibly. And in all their time together, Aziraphale had played dense, resisted the pull-- the  _ temptation _ that Crowley represented. And now that he’d worked through it, gotten over his pious devotion to upper management, well-- perhaps it had been his turn to move too fast. 

_ You decide all of a sudden that you want… _

Crowley, if Aziraphale was right, had wanted him for entirely too long. And so maybe he resented Aziraphale for not building up to it, not giving him warning. For giving him no insight into why now, of all times, after the near end-of-times… 

They would talk. Aziraphale would make his case, and apologize, and if Crowley was truly not interested, that would be that, the friendship would resume… nothing need change. So long, of course, as Crowley gave him a chance to talk. 

Which, as it happened, he did not. 

Wind whipped through the shop as the door slammed itself open, despite having been recently locked. 

Aziraphale knew that a lock was merely a suggestion to a demon, but at least it would keep customers out while he sorted through the things he ought to say. 

He’d even made a bulleted list with his nicest blue ink fountain pen, and was in the process of correcting one of the notes when Crowley appeared. 

“Angel!” Crowley called out, door agape behind him and the unnatural wind rustling through the store, sending loose pages flying and upsetting years’ worth of carefully cultivated dust. 

“Really, is that necessary?” Aziraphale asked, striking an uncanny balance between pitching his voice to be heard above the wind and sounding utterly calm. 

“I realize I’ve made a mess of things, but why don’t you close and lock the door, and we can have a talk about this, like reasonable--”

“I’m a  _ demon _ .” Crowley hissed, the wind abating and the door closing and the distance between them crossed in the blink of an eye. “I’m not reasonable-- I don’t have to be.”

Crowley’s glasses, Aziraphale noticed in a distant and distracted sort of way, were larger than usual and mirrored-- so that instead of the slightest hint of his eyes, all Aziraphale could see in them was himself. 

“Well then at least let  _ me  _ be reasonable. I’m sorry that I mucked it up, and we can pretend it never happened, if you like. Just go back to being…” He stopped short when Crowley jabbed his bony finger into his chest. 

“To being what? Friends? Is that what you think we are? You don’t even like me-- said it yourself! And,” He drew back, looking smug and clearly just getting himself wound up, “It doesn’t matter anyway, because you’re just all mixed up. The apocalypse that didn’t happen, probably. Messing with your angelic-- you  _ can’t _ love me or want me, because you don’t  _ get to have _ either of those things.” 

The words struck Aziraphale like a slap. 

“My dear, whatever makes you think that?” He asked, barely managing not to gasp the words through the sting of pressure in his chest.

“You’re like you said, just a funnel that God pours love into for other people. You don’t get any of your own. You can’t love me any more than I can love you, and even if you could, it would be God’s love, which I am, by the way, cut off from. It’d probably hurt me, if you tried it.” 

“I have love of my own!” Aziraphale spluttered, horribly indignant. “I doubt the Almighty has much of an opinion either way when it comes to regency era snuff boxes, or… or various french baked goods. And you-- well, you may say you don’t love, but what about the Bentley, what about--”

Aziraphale stopped, licked his lips, and took a breath. 

“If you don’t love me, if you can’t, then it’s alright, and I understand, and if this is… awkward, or-- I didn’t mean to hurt you by saying it. I only wanted you to know-- to, to open that door, if it was something you were interested in pursuing. That’s all. I’m not-- I didn’t want you to feel as if you  _ have _ to…” He trailed off, losing steam, and it felt as if something cold and altogether unpleasant was gripping his heart. He summoned a little smile to counter it. 

“What we have is good, wonderful even, and it has always been enough.” 

He could see the uncertainty in Crowley’s face, the way he cycled through a dozen unreadable emotions, and he hated that he’d been the one to put it there. 

“Had.” Crowley said, finally, and Aziraphale felt his heart sinking. 

“What we had.” He repeated quietly, to show he understood, and looked down and away. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean-- I’ve said that.”

He would not cry. It was his own fault, damnably stupid of him. Maybe, in a few hundred years, they could mend this-- it would just be quiet and lonely until then. 

Crowley made a noise in his throat, and Aziraphale looked back up at him. 

“Is there anything I can do to fix this?” Aziraphale asked, and he hated how small he sounded. 

Crowley seemed to be wavering again, but that made up his mind apparently. He pulled his glasses off and took Aziraphale by the shoulders. 

“Angel--” he began, and Aziraphale flinched. “Aziraphale,” Crowley amended, hardly missing a beat. “I’m not-- I’m not angry with you. I can’t be, not for this. It isn’t--  _ you  _ haven’t broken us to need fixing.  _ I’m _ \-- you said it’s always been enough. Not for me it hasn’t. Or, it has, because I’ve made it be enough. I’ve wanted you for millennia, and here you are offering. But we  _ can’t _ . And I know you-- you’re dogged. You go after what you want. You aren’t a coward the way I am, to just… take good enough and leave it at that. But I can’t let you, not with this. So I’m going away for a while, and you’ll… find other things to want. And maybe at some point we can… can go back to drinking nights and dinners and being friends.”

Crowley sounded downright desperate, and despite the fatalistic bent of his words, Aziraphale felt hope blossoming in his chest. 

“I don’t think you’re a coward.” He told him. “And I don’t think you need to leave. Why don’t-- here, why don’t you let me make some tea, and we can discuss what you’re so afraid of? I promise, I won’t hurt you.” 

Aziraphale reached up, slowly and carefully, to give him a chance to lean away if he wanted to, and laid his hand along the side of Crowley’s face, covering his snake tattoo and stroking over his cheekbone with his thumb. 

Crowley caught his hand and held it in place, leaning into the touch, then pulled away and backed up several feet all at once. 

“You won’t hurt me.” He said, voice rough, “But loving me can’t do anything but hurt you, and I can’t be part of it. I’m sorry. I’m leaving but-- I’ll think of something.” 

Before Aziraphale could get another word in edge-wise, Crowley had fled from him, for the second time that day, and he couldn’t help but feel off balance again-- this time with anger. Because it wasn’t that he was unwanted-- they both-- Crowley  _ had said _ \--

And yet he was still gone, and Aziraphale could feel him moving very far away, very fast. 

_ Damnit. _

_ What did Crowley know that he didn’t, to make him so certain? So afraid? And what did he mean, he’d think of something? What needed to change? _


	2. Two

“You want…to petition for an appeal? Against a decision  _ God  _ made--  _ six thousand _ years ago.” 

Gabriel couldn’t seem to keep his voice as flat as he was trying to, sounding instead like he could barely believe what he was hearing-- and like he found having to hear it at all to be highly distasteful. 

Crowley, for his part, was squirming uncomfortably under the weight of being  _ in Heaven _ and in his own infernally constructed body. Even the weight of Gabriel’s  _ righteous _ disgust stung in a physical way, but he pressed his fingernails into his palms and tried to power through it.

“Things’ve changed since then.” Crowley answered, wheedling and hoping not to sound too horribly desperate. “I killed a demon, turned my back on Satan-- done lots of miscellaneous good work through the years. Didn’t get dissolved in Holy Water when my lot tried punishing me-- and there’s the whole bit with my role in the hiding of the Antichrist and the lack of end of the world. All of that’s got to count for something.” 

Gabriel tilted his head to the side a bit. 

“Yes, you do seem to have a few notably un-demonic traits… but I have to say, this is utterly unprecedented. Highly irregular.”

“So was me falling in the first place. Look, I know Heaven’s changed since, gone more bureaucratic and all, but I’ll do-- I’ll  _ believe _ whatever I have to. I’ll take anything I need to back. And… if you really want war on hell, who better to give you intel than a formerly highly prized agent of theirs? You win, I win, everything goes back to being…” He cast about for the words. “Tickety-boo.” 

They felt strange in his mouth. 

“Huh.” Gabriel said, the words clearly strange in his ears, too. 

“I’ll need to consult with the Metatron. But if he-- and God-- are amenable, maybe we should set up a probationary period. After all, you’d need to be sure before you…. Un-fell. Ascended, I guess. You stay put, let me see if such a thing is even possible. And uh-- Crawley?”

Gabriel turned away, then paused to look back, one hand on the handle of his office door. 

“Crowley.” He corrected instinctively, before adding, “Yes?” 

“Don’t _ touch _ anything.” Gabriel wiggled his fingers in the air, apparently finding that idea distasteful as well, before leaving his office at a brisk pace.   
The way he’d said it made Crowley feel instantly dirty and less than, and he couldn’t help but remember how much he’d  _ hated  _ Heaven, both before and immediately after his Fall, for exactly that reason. Righteous, condescending twats. 

And then on top of it there was how much he hated it now, the low grade throbbing pain that had lodged itself in his throat and spine and head and chest.

_ Oh Angel,  _ he thought,  _ this had better work. _

It would be worth it, if it did. It would mean he could have his cake and eat it too-- love Aziraphale and keep him from falling. As long as he’d still have him, that was. As long as he could remain enough of himself to be what Aziraphale wanted. 

Though, in all likelihood, if he pulled this off, Aziraphale would want him  _ more.  _ Unreservedly. 

If he hadn’t fallen in the first place, they likely would have been together millennia ago.

That didn’t mean Crowley didn’t find himself sitting in a pool of cold dread until Gabriel returned. 

He came through the door and stopped, grinning hugely and giving Crowley a double thumbs up. 

“Well, we got the go ahead for your probationary period. I just have some paperwork for you to fill out, and-- you’re still good, have a body and everything, right? Excellent. So. Here’s my thought. We’re gonna send you somewhere on Earth that’s fairly remote, lots of suffering, various different sorts. You do as much good as you can for a week, and then you come back here, and we review. Sound doable?” 

Crowley hesitated.

“A week is long enough for Hell to catch on and send someone after me. Especially if I’m meant to be trying to use the powers of hell to work miracles of healing and blessings and the like.” He said slowly, realizing that this test was being stacked against him.

How… heavenly.

“Oh, don’t you worry about that. Since you’re a demon,we’re sending someone along to do all the actual miracle work, as well as to give an accurate report. So you give the orders, tell him how to do the most good possible. Exact opposite of your current gig, as I understand it. And we’re sending someone strong enough that you won’t have to worry about him if someone from your office shows up-- only other person with any experience in going back and forth between Heaven and earth like this. You’ll be completely safe.” 

Crowley felt his eyes widen, his thoughts immediately going to Aziraphale-- as was only too uncomfortably common for him.

“You mean I’m working with--”

There was a rap on the door and Gabriel nodded, opening it to reveal Christ himself. 

“Oh,  _ Jesus _ !” Crowley groaned, dropping his head into his hands. Not only from his dismay at being faced with the son of God, but also from the additional Goodness in the room cranking up his discomfort tenfold.

And worse--he knew Christ. Or, they’d met. Spent a considerable amount of time together, actually-- forty days in the desert, or roundabout. He knew better than to hope that there were no hard feelings over that. 

But Jesus walked calmly in, looking serene and Good enough to make Crowley want to vomit. Or that might have just been the headache; it was hard to say.

“Crowley now, isn’t it? Suits you much better.” 

Jesus looked entirely too knowing on that front, and Crowley couldn’t help but feel embarrassed. 

“Not exactly keeping our heads down if you’re running amok, working miracles, are we? Hell’s going to panic the second they hear you’ve unleashed him again, hot on the heels of their version having gone completely native.” 

“ _ Both  _ of you are going to be keeping your heads down. Junior here is getting antsy and Herself wants to put you on a shared leash, so that’s the plan. If anyone on the three realms so much as whispers a suspicion it’s the two of you, you’re right back here, Jesus to sit in on meetings and Crowley-- well.” Gabriel smiled, and despite being an angel, there was absolutely nothing nice about it. 

“What about Aziraphale?” Crowley blurted, and again, Jesus turned entirely too knowing eyes on him. 

“What about him?” Gabriel asked, tone sounding like a warning. 

“He doesn’t know I’m here, and I’d rather he not-- that is, he’s been thwarting me for years. If I suddenly show up and miracles start happening, he’s going to get suspicious, come investigate.” 

Gabriel hummed. 

“Well, he’s not really working for us at the moment, per se, but I could send someone down to, I don’t know, chat with him. For our records. That ought to keep him busy for plenty long enough, knowing how he loves to blabber on.”

Crowley had to physically bite his tongue to stop himself snapping back, and just nodded instead. 

“Great.” Gabriel said, clapping his hands together and looking from Jesus to Crowley and back again. “Well, that’s settled then. Off you go-- Junior, you’re going to need to report to the quartermaster for a body and… hm, Crowley can advise on appropriate clothing, I suppose.”

“Appropriate clothing for where? Where are you sending us?” Crowley asked, then hissed when Jesus lay his hand on Crowley’s arm to calm him, and it  _ burned _ . 

Gabriel waved dismissively.

“The Almighty likes deserts, said you should go help out-- Africa I guess. A very British thing to do, I’m informed. Yes, going off and volunteering in Africa is seen as a very good and selfless thing. Your side probably hates it. Have fun!” 

Gabriel twitched his fingertips in a mocking little wave, and Crowley shuffled around Jesus to get to the door, not willing to deal with getting scalded again if he tried to help him out. 

And-- had it hurt when he’d touched him before, back on Earth? He didn’t think so. Must be all the Grace up here-- Jesus had spent millennia sopping it up like a sponge. Would it have hurt him, early on, if Aziraphale had touched him then? 

Would it have changed anything, if it had? 

He was jolted away from such thoughts by a blinding pain in his temples as he and Jesus moved into the hallway and he was stricken by all the Faith and Grace that the place was exuding. 

“Are you alright?” Jesus asked, and Crowley shook his head, clutching at it still. 

“Hurtssss to be here-- I’m a  _ demon _ remember?” He couldn’t stop the hiss, and flinched in embarrassment. 

“We’ll move fast then. This way.” Jesus took his arm to direct him, and Crowley cried out, yanking it away from him. 

Jesus raised his hands and gestured instead, expression somewhere between horrified and angry. 

They made their way quickly through the halls and up some stairs to another room, this one almost worse, due to the various blessed blades and armors that hung from the wall. 

“Ah, Junior!”

If Crowley had been in a better mood, and not been assailed by a thousand shards of Divine Light, he might have appreciated-- or at least made a crack about the inherent vanity behind-- the man’s impressive facial hair. 

“The good news is that the paperwork’s already been done… that’s the nepotism of the nephilim for you. So just come right this way, slip into this--”

“Oh, is this the one I brought back last time?” Jesus sounded politely interested at best. 

“Patched up and perfectly preserved. Wouldn’t dare let anyone else wear it. Here you are--” 

There was something unappealing about seeing Jesus’s corporeal flesh held up like a jacket to be shrugged on, lolling about grotesquely. 

And, as he approached and dissolved into light in the process of slipping into it, Crowley had to avert his eyes. When he did look back up, Jesus, now garbed in skin and nothing else, rolled his shoulders and did a little shimmy. And that too was both disconcerting and oddly familiar.

“I forgot how dark my skin was-- you’d never know it from the pictures. So. Gabriel says Crowley will know what sort of clothing I need. We’re going to the desert,” Jesus said brightly, and the Quartermaster chuckled and patted the Christ on his head like he was an amusing child, then turned a stern face towards Crowley. 

“Well?” He demanded. 

“Light colors, T shirt, cotton pants, hat, scarf, layers-- jackets. Lighter one and heavier one. Sturdy boots. All modern-- ah--” He was barely able to pant the instructions out, and the Quartermaster huffed a sigh before laying his hand across Crowley’s eyes-- his flesh sizzling at the touch as the angel drew out the image of what he wanted. 

“There, that wasn’t so hard, was it?” He asked, tone snide as he miracled the required clothing in place on Jesus’s body. 

“Alright, and so-- off you go. Best of luck, and if you need anything, you know how to call.” He addressed Jesus again, all kindness and humor back in place as he gestured at a glowing circle on the floor. 

Jesus stepped towards it and hesitated.

“Will Crowley be able to--”

“Oh, he’ll live, for sure.” Again, that cruel smile, and Crowley groaned and took off for the exit they were offered at a loping, staggering run, still clutching at his head. 

The sooner he went through with the damn flaying, the sooner he’d be away from all of this. 

It burned. 

It was horrible. 

He had no idea if Christ was coming, and he didn’t have it in him to much care as his body crashed into the still warm sands of an otherwise freezing desert night-- the burns that covered every centimeter of him aching even as he collapsed with relief. 

He heard more than saw as Jesus landed beside him, feet first and far more elegant than Crowley had managed to be. 

“I’m sorry.” Jesus spoke quietly, and Crowley snorted. 

“Pretty sure you have nothing to be sorry for. That’s the whole point of you, innit?” Crowley didn’t bother trying to sit up yet, or release his head. He wasn’t comfortable, exactly, but the sharper pains had died down, and he was fairly certain that if he moved he’d jar something and set them off again.

At least he was out of the direct blast of Heaven, and only had to contend with the radiant closeness of Christ.

Which only got stronger for a moment as Jesus sat himself down in the African dirt, then faded out slowly, much like the sand beneath them. 

“Maybe before, I don’t know. All of that was, you know--” He made an annoyed sound in the back of his throat. “ _ Ineffable _ . But in Heaven… it’s not… what I expected.”

“ _ Careful _ .” Crowley warned sharply, finally moving his arms away so he could glare up at his new partner. “Your delightful mother gave me the boot for that kind of thinking. I don’t want the credit for turning you off of her holiness.” 

Jesus scoffed.

“Oh, I think I’m pretty secured in Her good Graces.”

“Yeah, well, so did I. But I’m trying to get back into them now, and whatever rebellious phase you think you’re here to have, please don’t. For me. I’ll beg if I’ve got to.”

“Why?” Jesus asked, point blank and curious, eyes wide enough that Crowley could make out the whites of them in the starlight. 

“Why don’t get me in trouble? Pretty self explanatory, I think.” 

“No, why do you want to go back to heaven  _ now _ , after all this time, after all you’ve seen and done? I mean, you don’t seem to like it, even aside from the pain, and while you’re not a particularly good demon--”

“I’m a fantastic demon, thanks. Plenty of commendations. I’m one of the best. The Anti-you came to Earth, and who’d Hell pick to hand deliver the kid? This guy. I’m  _ great _ at bad.”

“So why this sudden urge to try and be good again?” 

Crowley held very still for a moment, then sat up and shrugged as nonchalantly as possible, with his entire body protesting in the process. 

“World almost ends, old friends try to kill you, it’ll change a person. Now come on- let’s go find where these people are we’re meant to be helping.”

He pulled his phone out from his pocket and groaned-- no service. 

“What’s that?” Jesus asked, looking at it blankly. 

“This…” Crowley said slowly, wondering if his usual trick would play out-- Jesus not being an angel, technically, and all. 

“This is a cellphone. It always works and always has power and service, and it allows me to call anyone and look up any information I need, any time.” 

“Oh.” Jesus said, nodding along and looking suitably impressed. 

Crowley checked again, and was pleased to see that google maps was working just fine now. 

Behold: the power of belief-- always overruling the truth of the matter.

“Closest town looks to be a few miles’ walk that way-- better do it now than when the sun’s up.” 

“Lead on,” Jesus said, standing and hesitating before offering his hand. 

Crowley hesitated in return.

“I won’t hurt you.” Jesus promised him, and Crowley decided that at least one of them definitely believed that, and so he probably could as well. 

He took it and skin touched skin, allowing him to leverage himself up off the ground without any additional pain being added to his current burden. 

They began their trek in silence, and carried on that way until Jesus broke it.

“Why’d Heaven hurt you so bad? You came from there, once, didn’t you?” 

“I reckon it’s like being out in the cold. You get used to it, but if you go hop in a hot bath, it burns. Just a theory, though. Might have something to do with the body being issued by hell.”

“If you don’t know, how can you be sure it’ll stop when you ascend?”

Crowley gritted his teeth together.

“I’ll work through it if I have to. Get used to that too. Whatever it takes.” 

Silence fell again, and Crowley wished it would stay that way, but he just knew that Christ was thinking, and that meant--

“Do you remember, last time we were in the desert together? You kept trying to get me to actually enjoy Earth. See more of it, experiment. Do anything that wasn’t just what God had planned for me.” 

“Yeah, I remember.”

He’d been somewhere between angry and sad about the poor kid’s plight-- a kid still, for all he was a grown man, especially in those times, but he’d experienced so little-- knew so little. 

“Was that just orders from below?” Jesus asked quietly, voice almost lost in the sounds of their footfalls. For a moment, Crowley considered pretending he hadn’t heard.

“No.” He answered, at length, when he could sense Christ was getting antsy from his lack of speech. “God does this sort of thing-- with us, the fallen ones, with Adam and Eve, then their kids, then with Noah and the ark, with you-- these tests, and this suffering. I hate it. Always have. Probably always will.” 

He realized, a step or two later, what he’d said.

“Doesn’t mean I can’t follow orders, though. I’ve hated a lot of the orders from Down Below as well, and I carried them out anyway. But at least Hell doesn’t pretend that the suffering they inflict is for love, or righteousness, or the good of all mankind.” 

“Sounding pretty righteous yourself.” Jesus pointed out. 

Crowley sighed.

“I  _ am _ trying here. I know you won’t believe me, but genuinely, I need this to go right.” 

“Back before, in the desert, you kept talking about the angel Aziraphale. How he’d come to appreciate this world, despite not being part of it. How even he got to experience more of it than I did, despite being born here and at least part human. Are you… friends with him, still?”

The words were so innocent, but still Crowley spun quickly and clamped his hand over Jesus’s mouth, his other going to the back of his head to hold him in place. 

“Don’t.” He hissed. “Don’t ssay hisss name.”

Jesus’s brow lowered and his expression grew thunderous, so Crowley let him go.

“Don’t do that again.” He warned. “So-- the angel Aziraphale. Did something happen between you? I got the impression you liked him.”

Crowley let out a very un-snake-like growl.

“We aren’t going to talk about this. It has nothing to do with anything. Keep walking and keep your mouth shut.” He turned away and started striding forth again, trusting Christ to follow.

Jesus frowned, but did as he was told for a bit.

“I guess with us trying not to be noticed, you won’t be able to use your wings for shade for us this time.” Jesus offered after a bit, like it was some sort of olive branch. 

“Nope.” Crowley responded, popping his plosive as obnoxiously as possible. “Surprised you haven’t been issued a pair yourself-- but either way, no wings, no obvious miracles. That’s how these things are done these days. Unless you want to chance being discorporated for being magic. It’s painful, I can tell you that much.”

“I thought about you a lot.” Jesus said, like that was any sort of answer. “How you genuinely seemed worried for me, tried to keep me out of the sun, offered me food and drink even though I was supposed to be going without. It wasn’t all temptations, was it? You actually care about humans.” 

“I wasn’t supposed to. They told us we weren’t supposed to care about anything anymore, except taking revenge on your mom in any way we could. I’m a defective demon-- another reason I need to get back on Heaven’s good side. I’ve helped as much as I could, all this time, but I’ve had to hide it, lie about it. I could--” He stopped talking and swallowed. “I could learn how to be what I’m supposed to be, this time.” 

“She’s your mom, too.” Jesus said, that part apparently being the important thing to him. 

“She  _ was _ . Until she decided I wasn’t worth loving anymore.” Crowley answered sharply. “We’ll see if she feels the same way you do, once we finish up down here.”

Jesus looked horrified.

“You think she stopped loving you?”

Crowley leveled him with a glare over the tops of his sunglasses.

“Why else would all of Her love up in Heaven hurt me?”

Jesus made a slightly wounded sound in his throat. 

“That can’t be right. That doesn’t  _ feel _ right.” 

Crowley didn’t know what to say to that. He was torn between  _ you keep believing that  _ and  _ you would know _ . 

Instead he held his tongue and consulted his phone again.

“Listen, we have more pressing things to worry about than our mommy issues. First off- your name’s a bit of a giveaway. We’re going to have to call you something else.”

“Not Junior,” Jesus requested instantly. “It’s so… juvenile. Like I wasn’t a grown ass man when I died, let alone having been dead for so long.”

Crowley nodded. 

“Fine by me. You told that to upstairs yet? Cuz I have a feeling it’ll take better if you don’t play into those expectations.  _ We’re going to the desert! _ ” He mocked Jesus in an intentionally infantile tone. 

Jesus shrugged.

“Only when it’s useful. Got us out of there faster, I think. But okay-- what will you call me then?”

“Why don’t you pick a name? Now’s your chance.” 

“You pick it--I picked yours, didn’t I?” Jesus asked, and Crowley stumbled over his step, glancing sideways with a considerable amount of horror. 

He cleared his throat.

“You uh-- you think so, huh?”

“I told you your wings reminded me of the crows that you said would likely eat my eyes out on the cross, and then later that you moved like a dancer-- that the idea of crawling on the earth hardly suited you. And next I hear you go from Crawly to Crowley? Oh yeah, I think so.” 

Crowley licked his lips and looked away.

“How about JC, or… Jace.” 

Jesus was quiet for a minute, and Crowley couldn’t help but worry that he’d offended him by not picking something more true to his nature, like he’d done. 

“Jace is nice. I like that. Sounds… modern.”

“Great. Jace it is. And for the record, I named me. So.” Crowley gestured vaguely, and ignored Jesus’s smirk. “Now hush-- we walk faster when you aren’t talking.” 


End file.
